HE YALE SERIES 



The Temi 

Howard 




OE YOUNGER POETS 



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Class ?S 5 B Q 3 

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COPmiGHT DEPOSIT. 



PUBLISHER'S NOTE 

The Tale Series of Younger Poets is designed to afford a publishing me- 
dium for the work of young men and women zvho have not yet secured a 
wide public recognition. It will include only such verse as seems to give the 
fairest profnise for the future of American poetry y — to the development 
of which it is hoped that the Series may prove a stimulus. Communications 
concerning manuscripts should be addressed to the Editor y Professor Charl- 
ton M. Lewis, 42^ St. Ronan Street, New Haven, Connecticut. 

VOLUMES ISSUED, OR PLANNED FOR 
EARLY PUBLICATION 

I. The Tempering. By Howard Buck. 
II. Forgotten Shrines. By John C. Farrar. 



The Tempering 



HOWARD BUCK 




e^^^ 



NEW HAVEN • YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 

LONDON • HUMPHREY MILFORD • OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 

MDCCCCXIX 






^Kk 



COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY 
YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 



©CI.A559508 

^Af^ 23 /9^o 





- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. 

5 I HE author wishes to express his thanks to Professor Albert 

■^r:^ A S. Cook for permission to reprint twelve of the war poems, 

^ which, as a group, received in 1918 the annual award of the 

a prize in poetry offered by him to Yale University. Thanks are 

5 also due the editors of the following periodicals for their kind 
permission to reprint other poems : the Nation^ Contemporary 
-^ Verse, the Poetry Journal, Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, the 
^ Masses, and the Yale Literary Magazine. 



TO 
MY MOTHER AND FATHER 



CONTENTS. 

Part L 

The Last Ride of the Season 

Of a Night . 

A Friendship 

Heart-Song . 

After an Early Morning Thunder-Shower 

"Et Tu"— . 

Prospect Street 

The Courier . 

Maine Again 

It is a Curse . 

Lost Ships 

Dolor Saeculorum 

The Shattering 

Withdrawn . 

Part IL Poems of the War: 
Dedication, 1917 
If It Be 
Troops to Sea 
A Call at Night 
Le Mort 
Night-Work 
Objective Gained 
Bastille Day — 191 
Impromptu . 
Inaction 

Epitaph for "Fiat' 
The Watch-Tower of the Oise 
Waking 
September 7 . 

Their Strange Eyes Hold No Glory 
Robert Hall, Killed September 12 
Mother, It Is Not I 
Verdun by Moonlight 
At Brocourt Hospital 
After France 
New York, New York ! 



11 
13 
14 
15 
16 

17 
18 

20 

22 

24 

2^ 
27 
30 
35 



39 

40 

42 

43 

45 
46 

47 

48 

50 
52 
54 
55 
59 
61 
62 

63 
64 
66 
67 
68 
69 



Echo 70 

Scars 72 

Now That For Ever He Must Go His Ways . . 74 

Epilogue — 1919 ....... 76 



PART I 



THE LAST RIDE OF THE SEASON. 

"Yes, you may take car if strictly careful." 

— Parental Telegram. 

Up with the gas, for a life or a lass, 
Never a thing like man shall pass ! 
Ho, for the hills so steep. 
With a driving, striving power ! 
And over the brow we leap 
With the roar of a rushing shower ! 
The winds whip dry on our laughing mouth, 
But Oh, for a draught of that heady South, 
The cheeks that crack and the lips like clay, 
To drain to the full ! lips, heart, to-day 
Drowned in the flood of the forests dim. 
Rushing past so fast, as we shiver and swim 
Through the ocean of shadow — then out to the sun, 
Gold unforetold — and the wonder won ! 
The panting road that runs like a dream 
To the dawn, 'tis the beach and the sand a-gleam, 
Muflled a moment in stinging smoke of the shore, 
Gone, reeling on, and we are the ocean's roar I 

For on for ever we go, we go, 
I and a jolly fellow or two. 
Free from college, to Maine repairing. 
Out from books for a little airing. 
Over the hills and valleys faring ! 
And what will he say, my dear Grand-dad, 
With never a note of warning had, 
Hearing a shout and a shrieking brake. 
When out jump I and a couple more, 
Dropt from Yale at his old front door ? 
"Am I dead or awaked" surprise a-shake, 
And the heartiest welcome a man can make. 
Oh, but he's good — and he'll crack the same joke 
That I heard when I kicked in my cradle and woke ! 

11 



Then supper so good, and a big, wide bed. 
And never a thought or a care in the head 
Just for a day ere the winter's down — 
Then will we back to the cussed town. 



12 



OF A NIGHT. 

^^~I"^is the devil of a night, all hot and sweet, 
jL Till a sweat not ichor gets in the blood, 
And we chafe and chide to be glued to a seat : 
Damn it, I say, but I must abroad ! 

Out in the night to wander, wander. 

Out in the night with this sweet, mad scent, 

Under the shadowy elm-arch yonder — 
Shadows and sounds and odors blent ! 

Give me your arm : we'll strike forever 
A stride to reach to the front of the day. 

Meet it and greet it ! Ah, friend, did you ever 
Feel lips of a girl like the night's astray 

Over your brow and your cheek and your eyes, 
Touching your hands, down neck so cool 

A shiver forever, mad, mad surprise *? 
— Wander we : who sleeps is a fool. 

Wander, wander ! The sky is yonder. 
Up, aye a million miles out of sight. 

And we, dry motes, with souls to ponder 
The bliss of a kiss from the Infinite ! 

Give me your arm : our stride be straight. 
Over the world to the front of the day. 

Breast to breast with the flaming Gate, 

When the marvel breaks with the mists away; 

Breaks untrammeled of scent or sound ; 

Breaks like God from his Word, and is He ; 
Breaks as my soul leaps free from the ground — 

Flung back, to arise at last and be. 



13 



A FRIENDSHIP. 

THE lift of a great impulse up and up. . . . 
Oh, thou art as a billow bearing forth, 

Urged by the insistent Wind of the North, 
Inevitable, eternal, blinding-bright, foam-soft! 
The ship of my life reels to feel the surge 

Of that great power bearing it aloft ; 
Trembles and sways before the resistless urge, 

While a pure wind blows keen upon my brow. 
This is thy friendship now, 
A mighty power. Oh, thou hast seemed to sup 

At God's great feast of wisdom and of love, 

High in the glowing halls of heaven above ; 
To drain immortal nectar from Christ's cup 

That meant to earth no idle purity. 

But a great vision high, strong as the sea — 
The lift of a great impulse up and up ! 



H 



HEART-SONG. 

BEAUTIFUL, wild, with a breeze abroad 
Dimpling the sunlit lake like mad, 
All the bright day a gay young God, 

Showering the gems of his youth, and glad 
To live and give on a day like this 
When the breeze that blows on the brow's a kiss. 

Beautiful so, with the thrill of life 
Awake in sunlight, a lilting song; 

Blood a-leap for the exquisite strife 

Of living this day out full and strong ; 

And a strength that is full as the cool wind is, 

And Life's full lips in one long kiss 

Pressed close on yours like a bursting flower! 

Oh, a spurt of grape, a laugh, a quip, 
Rain on the cheek from a thunder-shower 

Out of the North! just — life's at the lip: 
Ah, drain to the dregs that dizzy draught— 
What? a young satyr behind you laughed? 



15 



AFTER AN EARLY MORNING 
THUNDER-SHOWER. 

DOWN wet sidewalks in the morning, 
Walking to my work and scorning 
Folks who lie a-bed a-sighing 
For the sidewalks to be drying. 

Odor of the rain-swept night ; 
Clear fresh pools in basins bright 
Catching up the dewy light 

Out of heaven blue, 
Giving back with wan pale smile 
Tears cold clouds let fall a while 

Ere they slipt from view. 
Blue-eyed broke the dawn above 

O'er these flooded lands of ours ; 
Still the glistening boughs above 

Hung with cold metallic flowers. 
Dewy bits of heaven clinging 
To the windy branches swinging 
O'er the pleasant streets that lie 
Wet and gleaming to the sky. 
Waking sparrows' twittering mirth ; 
Life a-stir across the earth; 
Faces moving to and fro, 
Going whither ? who should know *? 
Oh, 'tis pleasant to the eye 

To look out upon the world 

Like a crystal rose empearled. 
Ere the rainy dews are dry ; 
Ere the drops are warmed away. 
Lovely tears on lids of day, 
And the dreamed-of eyes unclose 
From the mist of sweet repose. 

Down wet sidewalks in the morning 
Walking to my work and scorning 
Folks who lie a-bed a-sighing 
For the sidewalks to be drying. 

16 



"ET TU"— 

You who so wing the blue, 
How can you bide so long on earth, 
Swinging long minutes through 
On beechen branch, nor spurn its prosy worth 
For the sheer lyric air*? 

Each moment, think I, you will drop 
Like a flame meteor tanager 
Toward earth, to soar again, 
Singing more wild the pain 
Of joy that for the world's sake must not stop. 
Instead, you cock your head — and hop. 



17 



PROSPECT STREET. 

{Although I walked upon the sidewalk. 
It was a sort of deified walk.) 

1. 

BROWN leaves were rustling in the hedges 
Where red the berries glowed; 
A wind that was a gallant song 
Went rustling, racing all along 

The length of Prospect road. 
And many folk with heart of June 
Jammed hats on heads that afternoon, 
Sailed slanting to the wind like ships, 
With joyous laughter on their lips — 

Forgot last week it snowed ! 

2. 

Two lovers walked ahead of me, 
As it was very plain to see. 
I had to leave them finally — 

And once I had to blink : 
When on the sidewalk looking down 
I saw a slug creep, black and brown, 

And soft as silk (I think). 

3- 

I saw a lady with a skirt 

So bravely purple that it hurt — 

She stooped and broke and tucked away 

A pussy-willow's early spray — 

Faint, darling balls of pearly gray; 

And in her heart I doubt not, too. 

That purple was a heavenly hue. 

4- 
I passed with equanimity 

The mansion of Dean Jones. 
From that wide prospect you can see 

i8 



Old East Rock, silent, couchantly, 

Uprear his crusty bones — 
Some fossil of gigantic birth 
Disclosed by the retiring earth. 

5- 
I passed St. Francis' Orphanage : 

Beneath one barren tree 
The children whooped — then slunk around 
With quiet that should quite confound 
The wariest blindman ever bound ; 
And sadly mussed, I fear, the ground, 

With sudden starts of glee. 
A little from them stood alone 
A Sister, with her black gown blown 

In crackling folds about ; 
And smiling from her sable house. 
With snowy band across her brows, 

All cheerfully looked out. 

6. 
Near in a vacant lot dry, dead. 
Briars and burdocks thick were spread, 
Tangled and twisted, chafing hard 
In the rough wind — sharp spines to guard 
(Till her mysterious wakening) 
The sleeping Beauty of the Spring. 



19 



THE COURIER. 

SPLASH of the Spring, clean mud on lips 
From May-mad, rain-run road, 
When clattering hoofs strike out, strike out 
The rune of the Royal Road ! 

Gray in the rain beside us slides 

The coiling river down, 
But we'll outstrip the sluggard tides 

To the bridge of Brankly town ; 

And we'll outstrip the Spring, the Spring, 
Though hard and fast she follows. 

With feet of flame o'er field and lane. 
And down the dead-wood hollows. 

For first to town in mist and fog, 

White and cold and dank. 
Mire and mud to knees from the bog. 

With clatter and clash and clank, — 

Over the bridge to Brankly town 

That seems like a dream of death ! — 

Then turn, O turn, the cold mists burn 
With fire of fever's breath! 

Up to the bridle an urchin leaps, 

The landlord's apron flutters. 
His bellowing voice bids, "Welcome, man !" 

— There's a click of sleepy shutters, 

And heads look down in Brankly town 

And whisper, "Who is this*?" 
(With mud to my nose you see nobody knows 

Who in the devil it is!) 

And I laugh as I sweep off my draggled cap, 

Draggled I fancy with reason. 
And making a bow, "I've a letter for you; 

I'm the post-boy of the season." 

20 



Click the shutters on twitter of talk 

(Sun's on the dripping eaves, 
Scent of rain on street and walk 

And the shade trees' tender leaves) — 

Down the stairs with pattering feet 

Come the folk of Brankly town, 
And there are parasols green and red 

And many a silken gown. 

And such a murmur and buzz of talk, 
And such a crowding and crushing ! 

You'd think 'twas a Fair or the Fourth of July, 
The way they were edging and pushing I 

"The note, the note ! . . . Who'll read it now ^' 
So I left them there in the throes, — 

Like the man who looks for his spectacles 
When they're right on the end of his nose. 

And on through pleasant Brankly town 

To the plashy road beyond. 
Into the fog and drip again 

By the reedy, sodden pond — 

Mud under hoofs that squirts and spurts. 

Lash of the clinging trees. 
Scent of the earth — rich, clean, till it hurts ; 

The wind, the gallop, the ease ! 

For we II outstrip the Spring, the Spring^ 
Though hard and fast she follows^ 

With feet of flame o'er field and lane 
And down the dead-wood hollows! 



21 



MAINE AGAIN. 

THIS afternoon I climbed a slope 
That quite belied the sluggish plain 
Of fallow lands, and breathed of Maine, 
Of Maine, and of a hope. 
Rearing no timid promontory. 
It put aside their sleek content — 
Smug towns of tax and toll and rent — 
Looked toward the sea and took the glory. 

Great God, it is a blessed sight 

To see the blue waves roll once more 
Their plumed myriads 'gainst the shore, 
And it is more than keen delight 
To feel the touch of air so right 
On cheek and hands, move clean and cool 
Through lifted hair. . . . Ah, what a fool 
To live and die like rats down there. 
Each in his little proper lair. 
Delving away, ambitious mole. 
To get himself a lordlier hole ! — 
While this wide wonder, this calm sea. 
The hills, the clouds that wander free 
Whisper (O softly), "Share with me!" 

Ah, thus it is in Maine ! There is 
A width, a breadth, a starkness clean ; 
The roads are winding, sinuous, lean ; 
The hills keep their old mysteries : 
Her sons die or decay — but these 
Brood with their ancient agony — 
Old faces chiseled gray with years. 
Old features furrowed by the tears 
Of some dethroned, sad deity. 
They keep their state beneath the sky; 
They count not ages creeping by. 
And ever upward, note on note. 
Swims a melody, dim, remote. 
As of revelers fain and far 
Where shadow-weaving breakers are. 

22 



Hear the hills of their reveling*? 
Is it the sea that sings this thing*? 

— O sudden clear, O clear and sweet! 
From out of sight below somewhere 
A climbing shout, and one more near, 
That floated up in beat on beat 
Of melody than tears more rare, 

From stoutest hearts, whose only fear 
Was — just to be the last up here ! 
"Last one up's a nigger, nigger ! . . . 
You're a nigger, you're a nigger !" 
Up, behold, an urchin figure 
Sprawl and squirm over the crest! 
"Who's a nig-ger, who's a nig-ger *?" 

Hark to the victor ! him attest, 

O dirty face and shirt quite shocking, 

And alas, thou truant stocking, 

Bidding all the world to see 

Dirty Tommy's grimy knee ! 

Up pants Dickie carelessly : 

"Aw, say, who told you I was racin' ?" 

"O' course you was ! — / seen you chasin' !" 

O rippling laughter of the sea. 

Flung in defiance up to me. 

Bidding me change that old refrain. 

To be in Maine, to be in Maine ! 

For there are greater things, I ween. 

Than ever the hills of Maine have seen 

Glassed in their still lakes crystalline. . . 

The breakers are tumbling merrily. 

Flinging aloft in note on note 

The deathless triumph . . . rich, remote . 

Till the ancient hills of humanity 

Shake in their aged agony. . . . 

Old faces chiseled gray with years, 

Old features furrowed by the tears 

Of some dethroned, sad deity. 

23 



I 



IT IS A CURSE. 

r is a curse to have had none to care ; 
No loving thing to comfort with a kiss ; 
No eyes to laugh away the dim abyss 
Of weary days with words unasking bliss, 
And bring the stars out in the calm sky there. 

It is a greater curse to have had these, 

And yet not to have found God's world fulfilled, 

But just the gray arena where is spilled 

The wine of life, till Love at length be stilled, 

And eyes look bright with subtle vacancies. 



24 



LOST SHIPS. 

ALONG the slowly swelling sea 
, Merchant ships that morn were three. 
They stood up straight and true and well, 
Elba and Ind and Isabel. 
The last faint sigh of the dying gale 
At sunset bore another tale — 
As if from foam-quenched lips were heard 
"Margaret," and no other word. 
In sunny havens far away 
Merchants may pace full many a day. 
Other hands their gold shall tell. 
Singing the while this sad dirge well, 
''Elba and Ind and Isabel.'' 

In shadows of perpetual storms 
Darkly lie lost vessels' forms. 
But the spelt gold of names yet sheds 
A magic round their oozy beds. 
What flooding radiance one would find 
Where sea-deep lies the Golden Hind! 
The Swallow lies in twilit gloom; 
Wine of the sea is Rose-in-Bloom. 
With old and shaggy-muzzled guns 
The Revenge lies down by her galleons. 
Sparrow-Hawk and Birkenhead — 
What of their sad names need be said^ 
Only sing them low and well. 
As Elba, Ind and Isabel. 

Northward, watched by icy eyes. 
Coldly the black Titanic lies. 
Something harder to understand 
Brooding lies by Ireland. 
Past mounded ooze and twitching weed 
Glide moon-like figures memoried. 
No use, my child, now, black zuith deaths 
Upward to fight for one clear breath. 
Lie still, lie still, as in your bed; 

25 



'Tis nothing but a dream you're dead. 

Motionless through the centuries 

The shadows float beneath the seas. 

There through the heavy, rayless green 

Lips moving without sound are seen ; 

And dim wide eyes float peeringly 

Behind the weedy mystery 

Of gaping sides ; and all around 

Stares the cold loneliness of the drowned. 

Hers not the simple tale to tell 

Of Elba, Ind and Isabel. 

Meekly her great soul comes to greet 

The dim ghosts of that vanished fleet; 

And none deny her gloried seat. 

Antilles and Ancona lost; 

Tuscania with what bitter cost — 

Ah, who shall ever sing them true"? 

Sussex and Lusitama, too! 

Alas, the fairy minstrelsy 

Of elfin bells of memory ! 

How can they bear our aching pain? 

Now must we find some new refrain, 

Some other counting of the cost, 

Some other plaint above the lost 

Than dirges woven wildly well 

For Elba, Ind and Isabel. 



26 



DOLOR SAECULORUM. 

I SAID, "I will trust the whole 
To these radiant sweet entreatings — 
Not body alone, but the soul. 

With its low, unheard heart-beatings." 
And I stretched my hands in scorning 

To the passionate, kindly sages ; 
And I turned deaf ears to the warning 
Of the ages. 

I found most sweetest pangs 

In sweetest, secret meetings ; 
I thrilled to beautiful hands. 

And nearer, dearer greetings ; 
And I heard the faery laughter 

Like a bird's sweet hidden note. 
But the long night's stillness after 

Took me blind by the throat. 

O gentle and pure forever ! 

Still have you always smiled, 
Forgiving again, as ever 

You forgave him, a little child ^ 
Or still do you trust him blindly, 

Calling him good and true, 
Naming names proudly, kindly, 

As mothers do*? 

O gentlest, cruel believing! 

Harder than all I bear, 
Or the pain of your knowing and grieving, 

Is your love that is like despair. 
Where, where is the sin that can save us 

From the reach of that love, set us free, 
Make you hate us, and so enslave us 

In our liberty'? 

Let the Whirlwind of God overtake us, 
And bury us deep in His Wrath ! 

27 



Turn from us wholly, forsake us, 

Blind us, and give us to Gath ! 
Why, in those hours of blindness. 

When that excellent death we cherished, 
Could we not there at last, by Fate's kindness, 

Have found it and perished *? . . . 

Then ever her tears come smiling. 

And the dear lips tremble through. . . . 
No more of this weak reviling ! 

Still there is work to do — 
Hark to the promise that calls us ! 

Yet may the race be won, 
Ere the last brave splendor befalls us. 

And the fight is done ! 

Oh, I know the soul shall recover 

Some gleam from the wreck of our youth, 
From the waste of our loves, a lover, 

From the lies of our dreams, a truth ; 
Some leap of Promethean fire, 

Some desperate chance — not the worst ; 
Clear draught of a purer desire 

In our bitterest thirst ! 

It may be we never shall know 

The things in our folly forsworn, 
And the love we long for so 

Must remain for ever unborn ; 
But at least through our own sad lack, 

And the look of that dismal crew, 
Somehow we yet win back 

To the hope that we knew. 

Ah, were it worth the endeavor. 

Even yet here redeemed — yes, I 
Could sing you a song, as never 

You have heard it before, and die. 

28 



O hark through the misty to-morrow 
Man's proud, sad, eloquent speeches. 

Like the sound of the wind in its sorrow 
O'er the desolate beaches ! 

Once I trusted and lost the whole 

To those radiant sweet entreatings — 
Not body alone, but the soul. 

With its low, unheard heart-beatings ; 
And I stretched my hands in scorning 

To the passionate, kindly sages ; 
And turned deaf ears to the warning 

Of the ages. 



29 



THE SHATTERING. 

WHITER than summer foam afar, 
Or daisy sheen 
Past meadows where the marshes are, 
Like the sea white and green — 
The cold panes with their glaze of frost, 
And the sun's glint, as the Arm crossed 
Gleaming and glistening, sinuous, lean. 
Driving the tireless wheel 
Nine clattering steel floors feel, 
Silently, swiftly, 'mid the even roar 
Of miles and miles of shore. 
— Outside were only walls like these, I knew, 
With endless staring eyes : and so 
The frosty panes that shut the view. 
And made it all things fresh and new below, 
I was even thankful for. 

There were no woods nor close-cropt pastures now — 
That was a picture-book of long ago 
I could not quite forget, quite leave somehow. . . . 
Strange, the brand-newness of each wakening day then. 
I could not have believed I should grow gray, then. 

— Yes, yes, the head-bolt snapt. I could not dodge 

In time. It cut my face and body too 

With tiny splinters prickling through. 

While, too, strange, sickening bulks would lodge 

Softly. . . . 

The splendid windows all were wide, 
Splintered from side to side. 
Letting the sun see in 
Where I had been 

So many months and months ere I was freed ! 
Fair flashing seas were on the beach, 
And there was wind, with largeness round, 
And light and sun and untaught speed 
And mighty speech 

And air in lungs like wine new-found. 
Dug from forgotten caverns underground, 

30 



Cooler, clearer than any air's clean kiss ; 

Till my heart shouted, This 

My soul foresaw to me 

When youth a-surge leaped like a deathless stream 

From airy eminence eternally 

In thunder and in splendor ; and the Sun 

Shivered the cloak of smoke, the Golden One 

Bursting the doors of Heaven, hanging thin-spun 

O'er the sheer rocks pure orient rainbow showers ! 

Brave trumpet lips to speak eternity. 

Guessing no sluggish ebb of age or dream 

Nor petty penury. 

Nor want, nor fading of sweet flowers 

That freighted those free hours ! 

Now that again this thing has come to be, 

shout, lips burning 
With the old yearning. 
Audacious liberty ! 

Spite of the grinding of the grist 
Her sweet lips may be kissed ! 
Spite of the weaving of your swords 
Through the strange startled air, 

1 will be there 

To give her those high gracious words 

That were almost forgot 

Where men's souls rot. 

Nay, swing your flaming blade 

And let it fall ! I am no whit afraid, 

Nor would be, were it the gathering Scythe sublime 

Of austere-stepping Time ! 

Strike, strike. 

Arms, legs, chest, features, all alike. 

Stripping unclean to the keen air 

Body once naked fair ! 

The studdings reel. 

Shivering like crazy wind-shook reeds — 

These are thy deeds. 

And this the turning of thy Fabled Wheel, 

31 



Thou false, iniquitous 

And unjust God ! See how thou treatest us ! 

This bleeding flesh is thine 

For dark purpureal wine, 

Pressed in the choked wine-press 

Of wretchedness ; 

And these moist sweating sacks 

Crammed with the pulpy grape, 

With puffed cheeks, puckered lips' blown shape, 

Down dusty ways in the hot breathless air, 

Sweating, on groaning backs 

Slaves bear, 

With naked, dusty feet 

And souls unlifting from their tread's dull beat, 

For the clear beakers by thy viands sweet. 

Lord, Lord, 

Thy groaning board. 

Crowned with the wine of wine. 

It is mine, mine! 

I bring it morn and eve 

And eve and morn abhored, — 

It is mine, mine, believe! 

—Strike not— I did not say it ! It is Thme— 

Take it — Not the red flail 

To tear us so. . . . 

No, no. . . . 

Chnst'Baal! 

. . . Too sultry way. 

Where moves no breeze 

The cool green tops of swaying trees. 

Nor round whose branching broad roots play 

Ice-crystaled streams with runes of the noon day, 

And soft deep grass, and dwellers in it. 

The grasshopper and linnet. 

And clover for slow blundering bees ; 

No, nor beneath round moon 

Spattering with silver spray 

32 



Night Naiads in their play, 
O'er chattering pebbles flees 
The gleeful tune — 
Lip-lyrics in the night's high noon 
Of no parched way. 

And I stood in a road, and to my hands 

Like waves white daisies blew and blew — 

Only a swell of swaying lands 

Against great clouds that grew 

And changed and formed and frowned anew, 

Leaning across the field that fled 

Like a blanched girl in dread 

Into my arms for refuge, where there's none ! 

To think that things so svv^eet 

Should throw 

Scared, fluttered hearts before the feet 

Of such a helpless one ! — 

Yet blow, daisies, blow, and the white clover. 

Red devil's bane for blood 'neath cheek of snow, 

With the rough kisses of the sky showered over ; 

His arm, the road, around thee pressed. 

Straining thee so unwilling to his urgent breast. 

Is the sky then so rude a wooer ^ 

Methought a maid with such a fond pursuer 

Bending from heaven to plant 

His passionate kisses, pant 

Behind her flying tresses like great Pan of old, 

Would turn and fold 

In spirit-strong embrace, 

Past Syrinx' grace, 

The freighted word of the old world renewer ! 

— Now steals a change upon the place ; 

The rushing field fades quietly ; the lands 

Dim into peace and rest like twilight skies. 

It is sleep, sleep. 

Or trance as deep. . . . 

Only the flaming of hot brands 
Past tired eyes ; 

33 



And the contraction of slow bands 
Where the heart lies ; 
And the limp feeling of strong hands 
When the head droops, man dies. 
Sweetly . . . again . . . again . . . 
There is no further pain. 



34 



WITHDRAWN. 

HERE by green lapping piles she idly rides, 
At last put by ; 
Lifting or falling with the patient tides 

That ask not why, 
But bear her useless weight ungrudgingly. 
Only her drooping hawsers indolently 

Claim her for land, nor unlock freedom yet. 
Yet soon I know her spirit will be free 
That like a ghost about her shadowy guards, 
Her silent decks and depths, still watches, wards, 

Lest those blank panes seem all too glazed and set 
That never more shall glimpse the open sea. 

Surely somewhere about her faded form 
Lingers the mist of a remembered storm. 

When all this solid bulk 
Reeled wildly over waves that thundered 'neath 
These shuddering guards in blinding, smothering wreath, 

Showers of steel-tipt spray — no sluggish hulk, 
But a live thing amidst those dogs of death. 
Snarling and snapping at her 'scaping sides — 
While these mute, motionless masts that dreaming stand 
Traced o'er the heavens with a wide, free hand 

The torture of those tides ! 
Ah, surely yet 

Thou canst not all forget ! 
Within thy sapless bones, so past their prime, 
There is the memory of a better time ! 

Ah, no . . . silent and quiet as a twilight dream. 
Better some deeper-graven theme. 
Some glowing sea, or lovely, far-off place 
These blurring fingers cannot quite efface. 

Is there no phantom gleam 
Ere the down-dropping of the whispering night ^ 
No last-seen island, breasting the broad roll 
Of Atlantic thunderers on her shining shoal. 
And tawny cliffs upon whose perilous verge 

35 



Cling the torn pines, dark as the solid surge 
Back-spurned in rage from such insulting niight, 
Baring white shimmering teeth in vain, in vain ^ 

Doth here remain, 
In the last wreck of the remembering mind, 
No lonely night with steady, icy stars 
Tingling the numb, blind fingers of the wind 
That feels along these unseen, trembling spars 
For eery chords that he shall never find ^ 
Hear I not now the fairy crooning strain, 
The muffled moaning of the main. 
That save for thee alone upon her breast 

To know her deep unrest. 
Might slumber silently, and turning seem 
To the far heavens but as a troubled dreamt 

Now here nor night of silent stars abides, 

Nor the rich tumult of the racing tides. 

The weeds weep from her sodden sides ; they seem 

To mourn the untoward fate. 
Onward and on the tides of traffic stream. 
Gay in the morning of their strenuous date, 
Performing the set tasks ; while thou dost wait 
The inevitable hour encumbering 
The endless tides with this old, helpless thing. 

— We cannot, cannot, since we understand 

The bitterness of this blank, useless woe, 

Calmly await the impotent, dull, slow 

Hour of decay, raise not a voice, put by, 

Made fast to a rotting pier, as thou dost lie, 

Cluttering the brave, congested stream. Ah, no, 

Even though the mighty tides ne'er question why, 

It must not be ! Even to the tottering end. 

Let us put out with all our precious bales. 

Our goods, our hopes, and costliest merchandise 

In the last, best, eternal enterprise. 

Until some time, in some unusual blow — 

Our last skilled pilot clambering o'er our rails — 

We greet the awaited, long expected friend. 

36 



PART II 
POEMS OF THE WAR 



DEDICATION, 1917. 

LET US go quiet, clean, 
J The silver ways among ; 
Not singing what cannot be sung. 

never blow your bugles brave for me — 

1 am no hero-knight with courage keen, 
Nor ever dream to be. 

But stillness now — you will know what I mean, 
You who have watched so long and tenderly ; 
Stillness as of the moon when clouds drift by, 
Leaving a limitless sadness in the sky. 

The husks of life are gone ; only the corn 
Waits for its golden grinding with the morn. 



39 



IF IT BE. 

IT little matters that we pass within 
That silent house, and never shall come forth. 
Our immortality is what has been ; 
We, the imperfect symbols, little worth. 
All great things have existed since Time's birth : 
Most fortunate, if we have found one out 
And given it to our time. But beyond doubt, 
If we have glimpsed a truth, reached for, and failed, 
Sometime the fitting warrior shall be hailed 
To strike it into life, a shining link 
In the armor of our immortality. 

The stars live on ; the rush of life flags not. 

We come and open like the rose, and drink 

The eternal dews — till the dank earth's forgot, 

And all our babyhood's poor softnesses 

Are flushed to meaning, beauty, by the flow 

Of the eternal tides, and we have quaffed 

The glamor of their way, yea, scoffed and laughed 

Blinded Oblivion back to his haunt I Can these 

Fair limbs of form, these goodly hands, this brow, 

Be but as colorless clay in the rich glow 

Of eternity'? echoes of a dear tone 

We tremble to, till it seems half our own'? 

Ah, no, these are but cynic-reasoned lies. 

Naught, naught! Have I not seen my mother's eyes^ 

No wonder in the Spring we dream it so. 
When the fields freshen, and birds come, and the air 
Presses our lips with lips so fresh and fair. 
They gave their love to Petrarch long ago ; 
Their beauty does not fade ; they cannot die. 
And oh, to hear the immemorial cry. 
Out of the clouds poured down, skylark a Shelley heard, 
And outsung in the morning of his prime ! 
The same wild notes^ — I hear his dizzy word \ 
Where now is the brave singer ? Our brief time 
Is but a ray of light on things that are, 

40 



And death is darkness. 

Yet not so do I 
Despair, wishing this dreaded thing afar. 
Because / wake not, never stir, nor heed 
Your anguished cry beyond the gray abyss. 
Feel not the trembling of your dear, dear kiss, 
Nor heed a voice that makes death hard indeed- 
Shall I presume that Love no longer is ? 



41 



TROOPS TO SEA. 

ONLY when you are sleeping, 
And alone the great ships lie, 
Breathing like fabled monsters 
Their slow breath to the sky, 

And the world has waned to a shadow. 

We clear and put to sea. 
Soft in the darkness we pass you, 

Lady of Liberty. 

The loose ice gently crashes. 
Meeting our moving prow. 

Never, of course, you know it. 
But we are leaving now. 

And we must press in the darkness 
To the rails, a whispering throng. 

Each in the darkness seeing 
Clearly whose love is strong. 

You will look out in the morning. 
And simply we shall not be. 

Soft in the darkness we passed you, 
Lady of Liberty. 



42 



A CALL AT NIGHT. 

FAR into dreamless sleep a near voice creeping: 
"To Poste C. Glas — the road to Avocourt." 
Ah, weary, now, be sure, 

To lift tired body, stiff and drenched with sleeping, 
And then steal forth as to a lover's tryst, 
Down the dim streets where o'erthrown walls sit weeping, 
A ruined city, in the moonlit mist. 
Then out through fields, and the cool stars are o'er ; 
But here the mist hangs like the earth's white breath, 
Muffling afar those droning guns of death. 
The sleepless murmur of a tortured shore. 

Over those ghostly fields a mile or more. 

Then silently the forest's prison-door 

Closes behind us, blotting the last gleam 

Of light to guide us. Now all noises seem 

Magnified greatly ; the road under us 

Shifts sickeningly, a passage perilous 

In gloom alive with voices ; vague, near calls ; 

Sound as of falling torrent that ne'er falls. 

A skidding truck sinks helpless in the mire. 

A whining shriek — cries of "Take care, take care !" 

The white mists leap to sudden seething fire ; 

The trees stand black and gaunt. A shuddering shock 

Wrenches the old earth's ribbed, unbending rock, 

Yea, seems to snap her backward, broken sheer. 

Screaming and helpless in the darkness there. 

Still whispering steel tries the wide atmosphere. 

And strikes in the soft mud around us here. 

Then stillness falls. 

We hear the stray leaves flutter 
Softly around us, whispers that would utter 
We know not what — waiting. The forest drips. 
Now for some moments no word parts our lips. 
Then, "Well, I guess that's all for now." And stiff. 
Especially in the knees, we stand straight-backed. 
Survey the helpless camion, wondering if 

43 



Another truck can do the rescue-act. 

"We'd like to help, of course." — "Oh, no, no, no ! 

Why, it is nothing — every night it's so — 

One anyway gets stuck. We'll be all right. . . . 

Been a long time in France ^ . . . Ah. . . . Well, good night.' 

"Good night." 

The forest's gloom is left once more. 
Up a long slope we softly move. O'erhead 
The bright stars shine as if there were no war. 
And at that moment no one wept her dead. 
Out past a ruined farm left desolate 
Amidst its riven orchard, blackened, gaunt. 
The muffled guns seem like a boaster's taunt, 
There in the sea of mists that stagnant wait. 
Shrouding the valley — some vast, blind, lost shore, 
Wrapped in its lonely, unremitting roar. 

A voice in sleep, insistent, low, obscure : 
"To Poste C. Glas — the road to Avocourt." 



44 



LE MORT. 

HERE on this stretcher now he coldly lies, 
A burlap sack hiding his beaten head. 
The idle hands seem heedless lumps of lead, 
And the stiff fingers of abnormal size. 
I almost stooped to brush away the flies. 
Musing if yet she knew that he was dead. 

Gayly laughing they brought him 

Up the dusty road, 
Chatting as if they thought him 

But a luckless load, 
And laid him here beside this scarred old tree, 
Till some death-wain should chance by luckily : 
Those wagons carry back the honored dead. 

But, necessarily. 
On the return trip they will carry bread. 

All day he lay there, and all night. 

Wrapped in the shining mists that swim 

Along the ground. The sullen might 

Of thunder shaking the earth shook not him. 

And strangely lightening through the mist that crept, 
Moving like some slow, luminous, foaming sea, 
Washing black shores of twisted tarn and tree, 
The flaring star-shells here 
Over his lonely bier, 

White meteor-tapers, his pale vigil kept. 



45 



NIGHT-WORK. 

ALONG that lane of soft, uncertain light, 
. Beacon of dust in a blank sea of night. 
Leaning far forward, ears, eyes, hand intent 
For sound or sight out of that blackness sent. 
Only slow-thudding thunder on our heels ; 
Dull spasm of guns that less one hears than feels, 
Shocking the air with long insucking breath — 
Till the strange silence after falls like death. 
Now the held shriek of "doucement, doucement," groan 
Of some soft, bleeding, ticketed being, prone 
On the slung stretchers swaying hideously, 
Till night is kind, that eyes may never see. 
Suddenly vague, uncertain noises start 
Out of the blackness, stopping the schooled heart : 
Stamping patter of endless coming teams, 
Voices, a curse, grit of a wheel that seems 
Scraping our very hub-cap, shrinking by ; 
Guns, carriages, munitions, trucks of supply, 
Upthundering, sweeping — vulturous wings that swoop 
Darkly out of a dream, shadows that stoop 
From some grim, vaguely dark, discolored sky. 
Lo, like a dream they now have hurried by. 
Look back : once for a moment are they seen 
Topping the ridge ; a star-shell's whitish green 
Uplifts, soars, wavers, falls — and all is gone. 
The soft penumbra of the road shifts on 
Beneath us ; once more on the tingling brain 
The motor's throb sinks like an old refrain. 
One of the swaying wounded moans in pain. 



46 



OBJECTIVE GAINED. 

ABED, a bed, and a table bare — 
. Five leaped up in the candle's flare — 
And there — and there — 

Sh-h-h ! You mustn't remember, but always know- 
Always, always . . . Oh. . . . 
Over us there in the gloom 
Waved one poplar plume. 
Black, unshattered, a shadow, 
A gloom, a plume, a tomb ! 

Spurts of shadows with cores of fire begin, 

And round us, round us spin. 

Always he crumples there like an empty cloak, 

His helmet clicks on the cobblestone. 

And I'm alone, alone. 

Never the easy-coming breath. 

Only the gasps that grip and choke. . . . 

But always that town we win. 

Where the huddled streets roar down to death, 

Black doorways, with Work, Work, Work within. 

He had a grin, but he had no chin — 

What did he put his dinner in *? . . . 



47 



BASTILLE DAY— 1917. 

PENOBSCOT Bay, Penobscot Bay ! 
Oh, to be back but once to-day ! 
Rockland drifting into dawn 
From the ocean miles withdrawn ; 
Mists that creep and sleep and glide, 
Clinging to the quiet tide ; 
Camden nestling 'tween the knees 
Of giant watchers o'er the seas ; 
And the ribboned road that runs 
Along the shore where I rode once 
In the morning after pain 
(Oh, but so to ride again. 
In the morning after pain !). 
Camden? No — a name more fond, 
Up the river far beyond. 
Where the gray old fort looks down 
With a fixed and foolish frown. 
And the swirling currents rush 
Darkly in the twilight hush. 
When the shadow of red walls 
Like witchery o'er the river falls. 
And all the town, when tides are high, 
Gaze where wavering shadows lie, 
Mists of corded masts and bales. 
Glimpse of pictured boyhood tales. 
Ah, the shady streets that still 
Go ambling up o'er Pious Hill ! 
Bucksport! Oh, ye Gods that bless. 
Take me back, and thankfulness 
Shall almost break my heart to ye ! 
Here at this moment now I see 
Every street as it should be . . . 
And the same faces, fearfully. 

Comfort it is, they may not know 
This strangely simple, natural woe ; 
The look I had last night, the spot 
Creeping and purple, and the clot 

48 



Of gathering blood, the whispering sighs, 
And then the misty, closing eyes. 
Now in the quiet earth he lies. 
When I am near, and it is so, 
Somehow I do not seem to know 
Directly of this thing, but start, 
Trembling and troubled in my heart. 
Lest I awake all suddenly. 
And this strange, unknown man to me, 
Should somehow be. . . . 

Ah, it is fire, and it is ice ! 

This mud-soaked, bleeding sacrifice. 

Red from beyond the rim of the hills 

Where dully thudding the cannon kills, 

Like a being mad with insensate wine ! 

It is not mine, it is not mine, 

The woe or fear that shakes me so ! 

All the beloved names I know. 

Luminous faces, the dear hands 

Touched the last time in other lands. 

Voices that linger when dreams come. 

Bearing me softly, surely home . . . 

It cannot, never must be there 

As here, while strength is left to bear. 

Yea, this the brave "Fourteenth of July !" 

Witness the Germans' grim reply. 

Thousands of slain, or worse than slain. 

The day that the armies may drink champagne ! 

O sweetly unruined bells are ringing, 

Sweetly that stirring hymn they are singing ; 

And the red-cross cars keep bringing, bringing. 

Alas, alas, the shriveling pain. 

Till I must not think. Dear God, again 

To be in Maine, to be in Maine ! 



49 



IMPROMPTU. 

BACK with our Division from the front — 
Of course the inevitable affront 
That had to come. Rest's welcome enough — and yet, 
Nothing to do now but just sit and sweat — 
No use to any one by any chance 
In a nasty little hole of northern France. 
So we must think of friends and others dear, 
Read their damned letters worshiping us here, 
As if we'd done something to make us boast. 
And now en reposi Caesar's well-known ghost! 

Winifred, don't you wish that I were back? 

God knows / do. Just had a bad attack. 

Worse even than usual, as I lay alone 

In the warm field here, let the sun soak through 

Limbs all relaxed— just thinking— oh, of you — 

And everything. . . . The wind came down, 

Laughing, winning, sweeping me free : 

Once more the mind's exultant certainty ; 

Again I seemed to see 

The river sparkling there by Bucksport town, 

The rotting wharves, the soggy dory-slips, 

The lazy, idle fitting-out of ships — 

Haunts that I knew — 

And you. 

Alas, the chocolate peppermints I bought up street, 

And brought down there to eat — 

Perched each upon the favorite rotten pile. 

So dangling down our feet — 

Nay, do not smile ! 

Hearing the fearful flowing of the tides 

Round our old haunted hulk's ingulping sides ; 

Till twilight came. 

Hushing the river and the murmuring mill, 

Suddenly shading black the opposite hill. 

While the slant rays with a warm, quiet flame 

Over the drowsing village lingered still. 

Supper at your house, and the things you made ! 

50 



The plans for trips ! To-morrow it would be 

Down to Castine, 

Along the Docian shore so barren, lean, 

Till, bursting from the shimmering white birch-glade, 

Lo, the blue firs above the blue, blue sea. 

Toppling from rocks whose feet 

What snowy breakers beat ! 

And the salt air 

Douses our dust-choked lungs with wine. 

Draws its cool, tugging fingers through our hair — 

Song of the sea and sun, road and a ride divine ! 

You'll sit in front? Good ! good to be alive 

To-morrow, you beside me, as we drive ! 

Oh, I'll be there for you at half-past nine ; 

I'll see the others of the crowd ; we'll meet — 

Say, at the foot of Franklin street ; 

And don't forget the deviled eggs, my dear I 

Good night, sleep tight . . . 

And I am here. 
O Lord, when working it's not half so bad ; 
But this — this makes me selfish — and — damned mad. 



51 



INACTION. 

No word to-day. 
How the days lag like very weeks away, 
Listless and careless if they move or stay ! 
Ah, now to me this envious afternoon, 
Blinding the earth with smiles ; 
The village-square, the fountain's falling tune ; 
White dazzling walls, red roofs' eternal tiles, 
And over them green, wavering tree-tops, cool 
As the slow-loitering, shadowy pool 
Beneath the bridge where children hang by hours, 
Dreaming of green-eyed dragons, dungeon-towers ; 
Ah, these to me are wasted treasures all. 
Only I hear insistent voices call. 
Questions, and never answers ; and no word 
From you. Surely to-day I should have heard. 

Oh, I know well — and true, too, more or less — 
What you would say to soothe this restlessness : 
"We serve, though waiting." 

And the labor's there 
And others in the intolerable glare 
Die, horribly die, for things that we hold dear ! 
O faces drawing ever near, more near. 
Till it is sometimes difficult to bear 
The love of your dear lips, the questioning eyes, 
And frame the perfect, passionless replies — 
It is your lineaments I trace 
In every stricken face : 
Your breaking voice that cries 
Over the wretched things that were so bright. 
When, when will darkness rise*? 
When comes the light *? 

Surely, if ever, these the dawning hours ! 

There is a stir throughout the land ; 

The legions of ^^erdun advance 

Once more for truth and France ; 

The splintered woods of Avocourt are ours, 

52 



Gray ghosts of forests gone ; 

And, where the Julian Alps like giants stand, 

Italy still pours on, 

The day of Austrian overlordship done ! 

And many a younger son 

From over sea — 

But a pale promise of what things may be — 

Adds to the faith of stricken earth's salvation 

Not the mere coming of an untried nation, 

Not the despair of hollow Germany, 

But the clear clarion of a liberty 

Mightier to overthrow no tottering Czar 

Than all the arrays of men and millions are ! 

Ah, if this were indeed the end, the end ! 

Bitter it is to pause here patiently. 

Hoping and fearing ; the long hours to spend 

Brooding on thoughts of home, each word 

That lately you have heard; 

Counting the days till you can hope again 

To hear from Maine. 



53 



EPITAPH FOR "FIAT," OUR LITTLE PUPPY- 
DIED AUGUST 22. 

HERE upon the breast of earth 
"Fiat" ends his mortal mirth. 
Gayly o'er his curly head 
Blossom, all ye poppies red ; 
And you stream by which he lies. 
Murmur tenderest obsequies — 
For when rolling years have passed, 
And the world has found at last 
Through the grief of wiser minds 
Peace that he so lightly finds ; 
We shall scarce remember him. 
So to-night full softly brim 
With our tears, our love, our laughter ; 
And repeat them ever after. 



54 



THE WATCH-TOWER OF THE OISE. 

I COULD not sleep. 
Slowly and sullenly afar 
The muffled thudding guns that never sleep 
Pound out their insane litany of war. 
The morning mists are deep, 

And the wet bushes splash through, cool to the skin ; 
The stinging nettles creep 
Like lire upon ice, as by I leap 
Impatient with strange doubts within, 
Eager to gain the lonely tower, 
And watch alone, like some wild druid seer, 
The quiet, trembling hour 
When dawn is near. 

The woods are left, the fields break wide. 

Ah, truly, what a prospect here 

From this gray tower-top, here on the mountain-side I 

Slowly the subtle distances 

Resolve themselves in misty slope on slope. 

Where the white coiling rivers float and grope 

On soft, uncertain shores. Now a dim breeze 

Wraps the old walls in shivering melody ; 

Cool, cool on cheeks, and lips, and eyes, and hair. 

Stark to the right, a line of staggering trees 

Stand gauntly there. 

Like ancient sentinels stricken hideously. 

Their ghosts, a fearful legion. 

Haunting the lean fields of this outland region. 

Somewhere beneath the bosom of this hill 

The little village sleeps. 

While the white fog slowly creeps : 

Mothers and wives, old men — not, not their sons. 

Hark, in the dawn so still : 

Again the distant guns. 

A streak of rose 

Like the sweet shimmering verge of waking; 

Some dewy petal shaking . . . 

55 



The shimmering radiance grows ; 

Yes, it is day. 

Like a thin, shadowy spire the Eiffel Tower shows, 

Scarce forty miles away. 

Here from this Tower of the Oise to-day 

I can see Paris. 

They, 
Ere the dread Marne, nearer than this. 
Saw and believed ; ah, nearer far, 
And sweeping forward o'er their weaker foes, 
Till like a landmark lost this tower rose, 
Splendid and beckoning them ! Brave, brave the bliss 
Then to have been a German born 
And looked, as on this morn. 

Where Paris smiled and smiles ! Most valiant youths, 
Mayhap they never showed you books of truths, 
But told you lies, and led you blindly by. 
Thus wretchedly to die ; 
Gave you the law that was not for one man 
Nor nation, but a hideous thing, whose span 
Of life must needs be nearly done ; 
Put in your hand 
Some iron-cold command, 
And in your heart no dimly answering law ; 
Made you no more the husband, father, son. 
But bade you obey, obey, whate'er the spirit saw. 
O blind obedience, blind, purblind. 
Till surely now you find 
What fatal thing is this that you have done ! 

But is it well 

To call these children sons of hell *? 
Surely you know even now the prisoner sees, 
When cheating dreams have set him sadly free. 
Dear and loved faces — screwed up hatefully'? 
There stood a lad last night outside the gate, 
Prussian — yea, even one of these ! — 
Delivered up from chaos, one 

56 



Snatched from the hand of death, death at Verdun ; 

Dazed, stunned, and left disconsolate 

'Neath the too awful weight 

Of waking to the tryst his country kept — 

Better have swiftly fallen, sweetly slept. 

And, till the fields grew dim, 

I stood and talked with him. 

His low voice seemed more mournful deep to me 

Than the dim murmuring sea 

Instealing over shoals in silken swell. 

Once only an unspeakable 

And breaking agony 

Submissive sadness could no more compel, 

Broke forth in anguish : "Thank God, God, 

That brother is too young, too young, too young!" 

Oh, that that word were flung 

With blind and burning tears afar ! 

Sadder than France's woes so truly sung, 

Germany's adoration in this war. 

The seed of discord's deeds 

Now spread o'er earth like flaming wild-flre weeds ! 

No king nor country, nor ideal state 

Can ever consecrate 

This torn and trampled, flesh-bespattered sod! 

Only for one thing can this stricken age 

Its bestial battle wage — 

That never upon earth again 

Shall fall this stain ; 

Else are the lives and shames, the splendid glvings vain. 

Shall it not be 

As in this hour, quiet, calm, and free? 

The dawn, it is the dawn ; 

The crimson poppies blow 

In shimmering fields below. 

Oh, upon earth there shall be no such woe. 

When muffling mists are gone, 

I know, I know ! 

The wind shouts paeans through the trees' strong limbs, 

57 



Trembling so stately in the morning's glow; 

And in my heart are unheard, stirring hymns. 

Let the great guns roar out, 

The hideous pageant roll. 

That at the last the nations, saved, may shout, 

For ever, ever ends this nightmare of the soul ! 



58 



WAKING. 

A SUDDEN swirl, the sunlight broke, 
As to a swimmer's upward stroke 
Out of the darkness to the sun, 
Dazzling the day. . . . Ah, summers gone ! 
When will you come, blithe trips again, 
Fleeting over the hills of Maine*? 

Laughter of voices gathered there ; 

Bright, bursting baskets' precious fare, 

Alas, the crazy stunts we tried — 

Often, it may not be denied. 

Just "showing off" ; the way we lied — 

Those fabulous, sworn-to tales, received 

In respectful silence, as if believed ; 

Then matched with a solemn a propos — 

Modestly matter-of-fact, you know — 

Till some one soared too wildly well : 

Then, oh, the shrill shrieks that befell ! 

Tumbled the whole tower with a crash 

Of splintering splendors, laughter a-flash ; 

King of the dunces, he was found. 

And loud with acclaim and clamor crowned ! 

So, till the fated hour came. 

With sober touch and cheeks that burn. 

Muting our lips. — Homeward we turn. 

Full-face into the sunset's flame. 

And all the flaming, fading tide. 

And all sad, brave things deified. 

There from the gathering shadow-seas 

Of flitting field and ashen trees. 

Tremble and whisper at our side — 

Till, like scared, hunted things, we fleet 

Adown the quiet village street, 

Where overhead the dark trees meet. 

Like Gothic arches, old and high. 

Cooling the colors of the sky. 

And the blood's warmth, till your white smile 

Shows Terror runs with us that aisle. 

59 



But then the glowing hearth's warm grace ; 

The older, re-assuring face ; 

A relieved laugh. On with the dance ! 

Life is no fearful, shadowy chance. 

No grim field neither lost nor won, 

No luring dream of hopes foredone ! 

Ah, now how sweetly smiles the sun 
Over the valleys of Verdun. 
Perhaps some other year, somehow. 
Time may turn back for us ; not now. 
By now in Maine, summer is fled ; 
The gold leaves are fallen, withered, dead; 
Like steel now shines the icy pond ; 
Like a knife the bare hills rise beyond, 
Cutting the sky, gray, cruel, dull — 
Barren, yet oh, how beautiful ! — 
The granite slope ; the creeping spurs 
Of irregular woods ; the gray-blue firs. 
Like stealing daggers o'er the hill ; 
While coldly blue skies shiver, thrill. 



60 



SEPTEMBER 7. 

RUNNING, running, staggering, torture-sped, 
. Bringer of fearful tidings came. 
His face was like a horror-laughing flame. 
His knees were crimson with undarkened red 
From comrades dying, or already dead. 
Gasping he gave his message, and we fled 
Down the lean, barren, shell-combed road, 
His face before us as a living goad. 

There by the ditch we found them, as he said. 

Blindly the heedless thunders broke 

With yelling laughter up the summer sky; 

And rocks and trees were idly tossed on high. 

We lifted them, the broken, moaning men, 

And those that never spoke. 

And staggered back that glaring way again. 

A bleeding brother ever, ever nigh. 
Days, days and nights. The curious gold ring ; 
His hand's strange warmth : until the day I die 
I know I shall remember everything. 



61 



THEIR STRANGE EYES HOLD NO GLORY. 

THEIR Strange eyes hold no vision as a rule, 
No dizzy glory. A still look is theirs, 
But rather as one subtly vacant stares 
Watching the circling magic of a pool. 

Now when the morning firing becomes tame. 
Out in the warming sun he tries to guess 
Which battery they're after. "Let me see ; 
Which battery is there*? which battery^ 
I wonder which. . . ." Again, again the same 
Returning question — idle, meaningless. 
Startled, he sighs — or laughs — or softly swears; 
Mutteringly something of dear names declares 
In the bitter cruelty of tenderness. 

The planes drift low, circling monotonously, 
Droning like many a drowsy bumble-bee 
In summer morning. Only now and then 
A whining shell, the mere formality 
Of stupid war, calls back his thoughts again. 

Suddenly near the unseen death swoops low. 
Laughing and singing; and full pitifully 
The startled eyes stare wide, but do not see 
The whirling features of his Genie foe. 
Safe in his summoned cloud. The quiet skies 
Tell not his surest comings. With waved wands 
A mist springs from the earth, and swaying stands 
A veiling moment — sinks. . . . And there he lies 
Face down, clutching the clay with warm dead hands. 



62 



ROBERT HALL, KILLED SEPTEMBER 12. 

I KNOW there is no word at all 
To say about you now, Bob Hall. 
We found the partly written letter, 
And mailed it to your mother — better 
It had not been. 'Tis queer to see 
You resting here so peacefully, 
'Mid alien crosses. Row on row 
Over the gentle slope they go. . . . 
And you alone . . . that is not so. 
We knew Death could not always miss 
Our lips in his blind, wandering kiss ; 
And you he touched. Yet not the less 
Was it the lightning's suddenness. 



63 



MOTHER, IT IS NOT I. 

MOTHER, it is not I who am stiff and chilled, 
Cursing the aches that never can quite die. 
Whether I come again, or am just killed. 
The dead of Ypres and of Verdun am I, 
The legions without stain ; 
And all that shadowy, huge, distempered brain. 

Brooding o'er flaming farms beneath the sky ; 
The green Marne valley, like a chalice filled 

With brimming peace again 
At the cracked lips of trenches that remain 

A voice for aye unstilled. 
Soft as the even-flowing hours of pain 

Beyond all wild cries shrilled ; 
And long, low twilights of dark fields untilled 
Beneath the Flanders rain. 

Then waste no woe, for now it is not I 

Who love you till I almost fail my doom. 
Sometimes when in the night the shadowy sky 
Roars over us, where we deep buried lie, 
Comes suddenly a light, and chokes a cry, 

And I am with you in a lighted room — 
Soft carpets spread along a shining floor ; 

And in the corners, shadowed in rich gloom. 
Stand polished things ; smiling you pause before 
The waiting keys, head slightly turned to me. 

And then begins the fountain many-rilled, 
The rippling laughter of the flashing sea. 

And each note falls a fairy tinkling bell. 
And then in twos and threes, a swifter swell, 
And loftier, louder, till — I cannot tell — 

It lifts me — crashes, falls . . . and faint is shrilled 
The shrapnel and machine-gun's chattering fear 
In the cold moonlight, like a skeleton clear. 

And I cling to you, calling God to heed ; 

And all my being's utmost hope and need 
Is but to win the precious past once more, 
Perfect, without a change. Yet I shall hear 

64 



Your voice, I well know, never as before. 
Whether I come again, or am just killed. 
The dead of Ypres and of Verdun am I, 

The legions without stain ; 
And all that shadowy, huge, distempered brain. 
Brooding o'er flaming farms beneath the sky 

The voices never stilled. 
Soft as the even-flowing hours of pain 

Beyond all wild cries shrilled; 
And long, low twilights of dark fields untilled 

Beneath the Flanders rain. 



65 



VERDUN BY MOONLIGHT. 

PAST the gray citadel to the dead city, 
Dead in the moonlight, and its bones were white, 
A skeleton so old it asked no pity ; 
White walls outfacing the slow-dreaming skies, 
And in their pallid faces endless eyes. 
And gaping mouths that shouted as we passed 
Down lonely ringing streets that Autumn night. 

The stores stood there ; the silent theatre ; 
The banks, the dark hotels ; occasionally 
The gutted wrecks of what once used to be 
Office or dwelling — all one moonlit blur 
Of dreaming death, silent and vacant, vast 
In hush of waiting. Some dread pestilence 
Seemed to have swept the unknown people hence, 
Leaving their city like a curious shell 
Of blanching hues and corridors carven well, 
Broken a little by the blundering sea. 



66 



AT BROCOURT HOSPITAL. 

I HAD been writing letters late that night, 
How I had seen Verdun, the city dead. 
A blanket o'er the doorway masked our light 
From aeroplanes low droning overhead — 
Moonlight marauders from our friends across. 
Something strong gave the blanket-mask a toss. 
Flinging it in and up. The opening filled 
With bright and solid gold ; and all things came 
Dancing and hiding in the leaping flame. 
And then faintly it seem.ed the shrapnel shrilled, 
Like elfin horns, slitting the dull wood through ; 
And on the roof the rocks beat a tattoo. 
Then all was deaf and still. The air was blue ; 
And from the wreckage people crawled away; 
And clearly in the moonlight others lay. 
Quietly sleeping, heeding not the affray. 



67 



AFTER FRANCE. 

ALL day the dizzy billows rolled 
^ Against our lurching side ; 
And the wind sang till the brain rang 
With a wild song and wide. 

It took the rigging for its harp, 
And an old plaint outflung. 

My eyes were wet with the tugging wind- 
Had ever I been young*? 

It was not possible, not possible. 

We soon should see again 
The faces and the forms beloved, 

The woods and fields of Maine ! 

Yet I have seen ; heard the still trees 

Retell tales often told ; 
Cut cords of wood, and laughed at home 

More gayly than of old. 

Mother and father, sister — oh. 

Sweet as relief of pain ! 
And the magic days in the Autumn-tide 

When we knew the roads of Maine ! 

But now, it seems I was not there. 

Those common weeks to me 
Again are brave and strange and fair 

As olden chivalry. 



68 



NEW YORK, NEW YORK! 

OH, I was one in the khaki-clustered shrouds. 
And yells and shrieks and war-whoops tore our throats- 
Our hearts were in the clouds ! 
O beautiful barges, and sweet ferryboats ! 
O Brooklyn Bridge ! O whistles' ravishing shrieking ! 
I'm all choked up — you must excuse my speaking. 
Old Battery Park! And there's the Woolworth plain! 
Did we ever believe we'd see these sights again? 
God bless y', Old Lady Liberty admired ! 
We trust your torch-arm isn't getting tired ! 

O Lord, O Lord ! they'll take us to a camp — 
It's enough to give a feller's guts the cramp ! 
But wait till we're out ! wait till we get discharged. 
And see if we don't make "liberty" look enlarged ! 
Wait till we hit those little old New York streets ! 
Wait till we amble into Bill's or Pete's ! 
Wait till you see us with a Stack of Wheats! 

And home. . . . O good, kind God, most blessed Giver! — 
They'll all be down to the station in the flivver ! 
Mother, it's you! — and Dad, God bless you! Mattie, 
And May, Jake, Jane — and Lord, yes — even Hattie ! 



69 



ECHO. 

WHEN we're quite old and rickety in the knee, 
Yet marching still together, ranks diminished, 
Till here below our last parade is finished. 
Still shall I see 

The Aquitain creep up that roadstead slow. 
The vessel of some dim and far mirage, 
With all her freighted people peering down, 
Silent, unshouting, by that towered town; 
While on the waters softly float below 
Huge, coiling snakes of sea-dimmed camouflage? 

When other hands go fumbling this bronze cross — 

Eyes staring up, a little at a loss — 

Shall I remember in that far-off hush. 

As now I hear and tremble, just the rush 

Of shells through air — like naked souls flung screaming 

Into the night, the doubt, the perfect dreaming? 

When hands unused can't wind a roll puttee. 

And these loose moulded clothes are shuffled off 

That now seem flesh and blood and bone of me, 

Hung up, with pockets emptied, clean enough. 

Never all warm, but always cool and chill 

From morn to night and night to morning still, 

While we lie dreaming soft, as if reborn, 

And wake and drowse and wake and drowse at morn ; — 

Yet will some straggling column keep its stride. 

Those soggy ranks splashed gray with mud to the hips, 

Hitching and shifting our Christless, goading packs. 

While the hot breath, like a shallow, parching tide, 

Sucks and flows over loosely parted lips. 

And horses drip dead gray, except their backs ? 

Now the reek of the mouldy hay where we lay 
Is upon me. The barn leaks drearily: 
Hour after hour I hear the steady dripping ; 
And in a pause the busy mice go skipping. 
Some one turns in the darkness, catching his breath 
In little snorts, that sighing die away 

70 



Leaving the darkness tranced, an easy prey 

To the cold hush of death. 

But through that hush once more the rain beats drearily 

And one, with Time, stands patient sentinel, 

While minutes drip like water in a well. 

And close to me twenty men lie breathing eerily. . . . 

At last the dawn comes, stiff and cold and gray. 

Blotching brown clothes of men on dirty hay. 

The huddled bodies I lie with. 

Laugh with, curse with, eat with, die with. 



71 



SCARS. 

THESE the beloved bodies you saw go 
So proudly swinging 
Along your million-throated lane, 
Under the arches where our triumphs show, 
Argonne, St. Mihiel, Chateau-Thierry, Aisne ; 
And all your singing, 
And all the rapture of lit, lifted faces. 
Flashed veils of flame, and tears, and last embraces, 
And choking sobs that no one else should know I 

O damnable shame ! It is not so, not so ! 

How dares the heart be glad on such a day ! 

In the very moment of our overthrow, 

When the dry word cracked "steady !" who should say, 

Would it be earth quick-heaped on flattened head. 

Or little biting, scorpion rifle-cracks *? 

Then eyes and heart, as well as hands, went red. 

Now it was ours to lead forlorn attacks. 

But not in those brave, dreamed-of ecstacies : — 

The hot thick lava of the earth's ripe core — 

Out of red flaming mouths I saw it pour. 

And rise and rise, and grip our feet and knees — 

Climbing — our armpits — then our wretched throats, 

Thrown back and screaming ! . . . 

Faint, by slow degrees, 
The Dawn, a gray-veiled Woman, glides forth pale, 
Lingering a moment over shadowy moats. 
And then beyond the line of scare-crow trees ; 
Till, at the last, she turns and lifts her veil. . . . 

O tenderly for us, as well as those 

Who mingle nakedly with the brown earth, 

Yet lie securely beyond earthly woes. 

Wrapt perfectly in virgin robes of fame ; 

For us, too, let your holy prayers arise, 

For we, too, have our scars of sacrifice. 

Invisible, remote from any blame. 

These too, we would believe, are something worth 

72 



For the heart's peace. — Before what Mother's eyes 

Can the too cruel gash disfigure long 

The remembered nobleness of clearer grace, 

Proud power that made her failing body strong? 

The radiance of every unscarred face, 

The loveliness of all fair things we see, 

Or have been promised — children's shout and song ; 

The quiet, trusting hands of youth or age ; 

Old women and bent men, a reverent throng — 

All these have joined to heap his heritage; 

And maidens lovely in their chastity 

Have touched him softly — and eternally. 

Through brooding summer dreams the thought of him 

Comes quivering o'er, as when a lake goes dim 

To scudding gusts. So now to me it seems 

Through us are saved the brave, unbroken dreams 

Of all the many who need never guess 

The haunting horror of our wretchedness. 

Their lovely forms are saved, so fair and whole. 

Ours not the lesser gift — a quiet soul. 



73 



NOW THAT FOR EVER HE MUST GO HIS WAYS- 

Now that for ever he must go his ways 
With this smooth, shining gash ; or, all his days, 
Never once leap a curbstone, climb, or swim, 
Or dare to flip a train for God knows where, 
Or ever ask her now if she could care — 
Because all that is ended now for him ; 
For these things, shall he utterly grow dim, 
The rosy blood stand still, the goodly hands. 
Meant for some gesture of life's broad commands. 
Fail like a faltering aim — his slightest whim 
Or dearest hope subservient to others — 
O kindest friends, devotedest of mothers ; 
Till through sweet, conscious words, the whole old story 
Is haloed in a sort of saintly glory. 
Some far enchantment, spell of Faery — 
With those far-thundering names, the Meuse, Argonne, 
Become a catch-word Open Sesame, 
A jingle and a game of nursery*? 
— Remember then the things that he has done, 
Terribly, but in splendor of all tears. 
In hideous shrieks and silence of sick fears, 
That this sole, best objective might be won, 
And not for self — who gave himself entire. 
In the sweet verdure of your memory 
Then keep his limbs yet blossoming whole and free, 
Still as when, tingling to his finger-tips. 
He dreamed the beauty of most glorious lips 
Held burningly against his fierce desire. 
And all life's bounty beckoned bravely large. 
With sense new-born, a promise soft, sublime. 
Of other hands and hearts and hopes sometime, 
A look, a trait, which, common as it occurs. 
Is his alone, or subtly, softly hers ; 
Till down that vista of futurity. 
Yet once again youth's deathless legions charge 
Beneath cloud-pinnacles of the sunset sea. 
Then, when alone our being seems to aspire 
Mysteriously beyond the reach of death, 

74 



Unfolding as a flower, body and breath — 
Suddenly this proud, terrible, purging fire. 
This dread, excoriating nations' pyre. 
Caught him, his laughter and his little lust, 
His strength, his manful boasts — and he was dust. 
— Shall not some beauty of that time survive 
Yet in your thoughts of him, to keep alive 
More than mere dust, now that for all his days 
Quietly passive he must go his ways ? 



IS 



EPILOGUE— 1919- 

THROUGH every doughboy's same old pet complaint, 
Through dust and heat, and mud and wet and cold, 
Through oaths and dull obscenity's worst paint. 
And things too sick and dirty to be told, 
Over and over on their young tongues rolled 
Glibly, till the heart cries, "What a thing is man !" — 
Somehow beneath that heap of rubbish lying 
A coin laughs up, some all too precious good — 
Better for showing without conscious plan. 

O many a time man's named his Brotherhood, 

And spent his days and nights in penitent sighing, 

And served the poor, and founded learned schools. 

And lived for God and Christ, and kept the rules ; 

But we had only rules of selling, buying. 

We only dreamed of winning a better living 

To lavish on our loved ones, undenying : 

And so we gave — yet then there was no giving. 

Our eagerest words acknowledged no desire 

Of braver task or trust — the sudden fire 

That since has turned even that blase derision 

To golden lines of song, the light, the vision 

Of that immortal tale of alien dying ! 

O what a flame was there to lift men higher. 

Purge all foul dross, yet not one trait destroy. 

So yet we hold them safe as once we knew them ! 

In those first days, when much was base alloy, 

A forced and even half-disgruntled duty, 

Already pain, like a dizzy knife, cut through them : 

Faces they had not dreamed were half so fair. 

And smiles, mere greetings, words in no way rare, 

Became a sudden agony of joy; 

Until at last unveiled, a radiant beauty. 

As of some worthier, fairer Helen, drew them, 

Young men and old, to this their greater Troy. 

Shall not some gleam of that divine adventure. 
Some lasting memory serve the land they served ? 

76 



Surely, the purpose that their bodies nerved, 

Remembrance of those suddenly hurled to earth, 

Who spoke but now, yet never speak again — 

A single cry — this strangely natural pain. 

And dull, precocious wisdom — seal the indenture 

Of faith in comrades and a nation's worth. — 

So through our building, buying, wooing, wiving, 

The dreams by which we live, the things we prize, 

A purer, clearer love, a nobler striving. 

Make young again young hearts almost too wise. 

Never till now we dreamed our heritage. 

How many shuttered homes, all warmth within. 

And light, and lifted faces there, begin 

Dimly to feel the thing he can't explain, 

And doesn't try — even as they feel the beat 

And thud of traffic shuddering down the street, 

Or hear swoln gutters roaring hoarse with rain. . . . 

Subtle and far, the sapping of huge powers, 

A nation's fall, and Russia's sickly rage. . . . 

We are not of a different clime or age. 

Playing apart our solitary role. 

But one for ever with the larger soul 

Encompassing this mortal life of ours ! 

What happier prophecy or hope was ever 

Flung widely through the world, as through this land, 

Not here, or there, but now on every hand, 

Wherever the wind so bravely valiant strains 

Down deep-cut valleys of the crawling river, 

Over the barrier bluffs, and level plains. 

Past capitals and ports, and lonely farms. 

Broad inland seas, Chicago's sullen sky. 

Or where Alaskan heights, like giants, lie 

With heaven for ever in their snowy arms ! 



77 



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